


Silence in the Hearts of Angels

by fremen_wali



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Hierarchy, Angst, Aziraphale Falls, Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Demonology, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Character Death, Polluted True Form, Religion, Religious Conflict, She has reasons, Some Fluff, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), WIP, bits of Zoroastrianism and Judaism thrown into a mix, crowley is pissed, don't worry this ends better, more to scare Aziraphale, not too much tho, some torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fremen_wali/pseuds/fremen_wali
Summary: "God speaks in the silence of the heart. Listening is the beginning of prayer." - Mother TeresaIt is some time after the Apoca-didn't, and Aziraphale and Crowley were lying low. It happened without warning, violently fast and terrifying. Crowley watches as Aziraphale Falls, knowing how much it hurts, how lost you feel. He is determined to keep the former Principality from coming apart.WIP- probably not going to be super long. Will update tags as needed.It's been a long time since I've published anything. Be kind.





	1. 1

This is not meant to be…

Crowley’s eyes strained in the unnatural light. The ethereal body in front of him twisted and shook in the blinding tower of Her Grace. As his hand reached for his love, the beams crossing the room made him hiss and recoil, skin burning dark as volcanic rock. 

Shrunk back against the quaking baseboards of their home, Crowley could only watch as Her light grew cold, aching, feral. The corporation began to change form, eyes circled his limbs facing out in all directions- motionless but begging. His wings, expanded like an insect specimen in a display case, began to blacken. Aziraphale screamed. 

Outside their house, South Downs was ignorantly silent. To any Sunday drivers-by, the single floor brick cottage looked completely normal. One old-fashioned black car sat parked in a gravel driveway. Flowering bushes dotted the front of the yard in bright, warm colors. Behind the house, some yards back, a small woods began, with tall, majestic pines providing a picturesque backdrop.   
Inside, Crowley’s corporation had begun bleeding from the ears at the fevered pitch of Aziraphale’s screams. He sounded like he was being torn asunder. It could have been an hour, six hours, maybe only five minutes. Time and space were not as they should be at this moment. Crowley remembered from his own Fall. 

Scraps of clothing began to tear away from Aziraphale’s body, dropping to the wooden floor below where he hung suspended in the air- his waistcoat, a woolen sock, a torn bit of trouser leg. Crowley didn’t dare move any closer to the light, but he scooted along the floor sideways until his hip bumped a loveseat, scrabbling above him for a pillow, blanket, anything to put underneath Aziraphale. The eyes hovering around Aziraphale, remnants of his true form, began to blink out, his wings began to lower. Suddenly, the noise, the light, everything stopped. Crowley in sheer desperation, pulled one of the seat cushions off of the small couch, and slid it across the gap between him and where Aziraphale’s shadow fell. 

The former Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, naked and exhausted, dropped onto the cushion below him. The blinding light pulled upwards through the ceiling, a comet in reverse, and the living room was plunged into darkness. 

Crowley was across the floor in a half-second, hunched over the other being’s body.   
“Aziraphale! Please, talk to me, Angel, please,” he pleaded, babbling as he let his hands roam over Aziraphale’s skin, feathers, and hair checking for damage. There was a noise, like a ragged, wet gasp, and Aziraphale was sobbing. He turned his face into the cushion, away from Crowley and howled, shakes wracking his body. Careful not to lean on any of his feathers, Crowley knelt by his best friend’s side, wrapping his arms and torso around as much of Aziraphale as he could reach, tucking his face into the plush underside of Aziraphale’s bicep. He stroked the angel’s belly, ribcage, forearm, upper back-- anywhere he could touch, whispering into his skin “I’m here, I’m here, it’ll be okay. Just breathe, breathe…”  
Aziraphale shivered and Crowley sat up, unbuttoning his long sleeved shirt. He pulled it off and laid it over Aziraphale like he’d seen firefighters do to people pulled out of buildings- a shock blanket, they called it. Aziraphale’s crying slowed, his breathing still shaky but steadier. It was too dark in the room. Crowley tore the sunglasses off of his face and stood up carefully, tiptoeing across the room to pull up a window shade, letting some sunshine in. 

Crowley returned to Aziraphale’s side, going to sit so that he could pull his friend’s head into his lap. He ran careful fingers over Aziraphale’s face, tracing the line of his brow, down his nose, and across one cheek. His hands ended on either side of his face, cupping the pale, soft chin and letting his thumb come up to rub through the tear streaks on Aziraphale’s cheeks. He urged the other man to open his eyes, huffing a small sigh of relief when they were still the same blue he remembered. “Hey there,” Crowley said, forcing a small smile.   
“Crow-ley,” Aziraphale hiccupped. His mouth screwed up like he was biting back the urge to start crying again. Crowley had never seen the angel look so small before. 

“Crowley, She’s gone. She--” he paused, wincing and taking another breath. “I feel so... hollow,” Aziraphale finished on a whisper. Crowley pressed his narrow fingers tighter into the face looking up at him.   
“Shhhh, hush now,” he crooned. Crowley removed one hand to miracle a proper blanket to pull over Aziraphale’s body, and snapped again to reveal a short glass of whiskey. He brought it to Aziraphale’s mouth, urging him to sit up enough to take a sip, then laid his head back down into the criss-cross of Crowley’s legs. “Aziraphale, look at me,” Crowley directed firmly “whatever has happened here, however you may feel, you are not Bad, alright? Not Evil, and certainly not Forsaken. We’re here together. I will get you through this.” He ended his promise through gritted teeth, trying to impress how important it was that Aziraphale would Not. Be. Alone. Not like he had been. 

It had been an hour or two later that Aziraphale sat up on the cushion, curly white hair matted to his scalp with sweat, and asked Crowley if he might put on the kettle. Crowley, of course, helped Aziraphale to his feet and led him to the reading chair he loved best, draping the blanket more evenly around his torso and lap to keep him warm. He busied himself in the kitchen preparing tea the human way, giving himself time to think while he waited for the steam to rise from the spout of their copper teapot. He didn’t know what the final tipping point was for Aziraphale. They had kept their miracles to a minimum after the Apoca-wasn’t, ensuring that Adam’s powers had all but disappeared before moving their combined belongings into the countryside. 

Crowley was furious, he decided, letting the whistling steam from the kettle voice his anger for him. He moved it from the stove top and poured them each a generous mug, extra sugar and milk for Aziraphale, only milk for himself. Crowley fell because of insubordination, essentially. Beginning of the world, of the Plan, and he had the nerve to ask God if She was sure about this? Yeah, he understood God getting a bit defensive, he sneered to himself. What had he done? Crowley asked silently, rounding the corner with their tea, walking smoothly to set Aziraphale’s cup down on his reading table beside his chair. The (former) angel looked up at him with a wan smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Crowley watched him take up his mug in both hands like he was trying to warm his hands in the winter, taking a cautious sip before letting the mug rest on his knee. 

Aziraphale hadn’t done fuck-all, Crowley thought wildly to himself. Seeing his best friend so miserable, so pained, had his mouth full of brimstone and a growl growing in his throat. Aziraphale noticed and cleared his throat. “Crowley, dear, please sit down. Your pacing isn’t going to change anything,” he said despondently. Aziraphale looked behind him at where his black wings phased in and out of the ethereal plane into the physical, brought them tucked in close to his back, and they faded out of sight completely. 

They stared at nothing together for a few moments, Aziraphale occasionally sipping his tea, Crowley standing in front of the reading chair, holding his mug absent-mindedly in one hand while the other went up to tug and scratch at his own hair nervously. The ticking of the antique grandfather clock in their entrance hall seemed louder than ever, and Crowley jumped when the gongs started, indicating it was now noon. 

“I was so… disappointed in Her,” Aziraphale broke the silence, suddenly. Crowley backed up to sit on the edge of the remaining cushion on the loveseat. He set his untouched mug of tea on the floor in front of him. He was afraid to say anything, to break the spell of Aziraphale’s thoughts, his theories on why he Fell. 

“When you’d told me what the Archangels did to you, well.. Me. They would have murdered me. No trial, no real explanation. At least the demons gave you reasons for wanting to completely eradicate you…” Aziraphale’s eyes were steely, and he avoided eye contact with Crowley, who for once, was desperate to look into the angel’s eyes. “She didn’t stop it, didn’t stop them, and why would She?” Aziraphale continued bitterly. 

“Why should we believe that She gives a damn about anything that happens to us anymore?” he snapped, squeezing his mug so tightly that the curved handle cracked. Slivers of painted porcelain fell onto the blanket on his lap, and Aziraphale brushed them onto the floor without a care. “I’d…” he paused, and the tears were welling up in his blue eyes, threatening to fall. “Until the Grace of the Host was ripped out of me, I’d rather thought She wasn’t actually There anymore,” he admitted.


	2. "in tempora restitutionis omnium quae locutus est Deus" (the restitution of all things of which God has spoken)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goes on a rant towards/against? God  
Many thoughts concerning Ineffability, or as some would call it, Calvinism. 
> 
> This may or may not be my personal argument, but I do believe it still fits here.   
Some fluffy comfort in this chapter also, because Crowley will always call Aziraphale "Angel"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did quite a lot of reading on the origins of fallen angels, hierarchy, and apocatastasis, which is in essence what Crowley is arguing for. 
> 
> As always, please let me know your thoughts, and thanks for taking the time to read.

  
  


While Aziraphale slept on the couch in the living room for the first time ever, as far as he knew, Crowley prayed. 

He started in their bedroom: with eyes closed, knelt on the hardwood floor with his slender, trembling hands clasped in front of him like a human child. Crowley bowed his head and took a slow, shuddering breath as he began, “ Father can you hear me, we need your love today. I know that you are listening...you hear me everyday..  _ Bollocks _ .” Crowley huffed, feeling incredibly silly and unusually guilty as he ended the lyrics. It had been a  _ very  _ long time since he’d tried to talk to Her earnestly. 

He grunted as he stood up, letting his arms fall uselessly to his sides. Despite it being a pleasantly warm temperature throughout the house, Crowley shivered in his undershirt. 

“All right?” he asked out loud, to the ceiling. “I know we haven’t got on well since I… well since I put my foot in it, so to speak, but this isn’t about me, it’s about Aziraphale.” Crowley paused, listening for anything that could even remotely be interpreted as a sign. He let the silence linger until his retort bubbled angrily from his throat. His whole corporation felt like hot acid was rushing through him, a stinging and disgusting burn that left no satisfaction. 

“You could have punished us at any point during this whole Ending the World bit! If this isn’t what your Ineffable Plan led to, why wait until the end! When we’re together! And finally felt SAFE!” the words tore from his chest in a heated shout. 

Crowley hadn’t seen how eagerly Beelzebub and the other demons had wanted to see him disintegrated in Holy Water, but he had seen how Heaven would have bound, insulted, dismissed and let Aziraphale  _ burn _ to nothingness before their eyes, not a tear shed from the lot of them. Not even a trial, and when they’d swapped back, telling their stories in the park, Aziraphale didn’t seem at all surprised that was the route the Archangels took, which frankly terrified Crowley. They had emotionally abused angels like Aziraphale, lower level Cherubs and Principalities, and he'd still only ever wanted to please them, make them proud. 

“Either Agnes Nutter helped us avoid our punishments as she _should_ have, or there is no Plan, Great or Ineffable and you were going to let us be DESTROYED, in which case, why SHOULD we believe in you?” Crowley’s rant raised to a manic level, his shouts echoing in the quiet of the room. His hands went up to scrunch at his hair in frustration. Cruelty, that’s all it was. Plain and simple. God had returned to Her Old Testament ways and was punishing her original children for  _ daring  _ to think for themselves. His hands left his hair and hung, palms upwards, beseechingly. 

“I thought the humans were Your most important creation..” he muttered, suddenly not wishing to talk to anyone anymore. “Aziraphale helped me understand that, in the end. It was selfishness at first, wanting to keep the Earth going. Adam and his friends choosing to fix the world instead of tossing it away, even though it’s more work? Brilliant. Made me understand a bit why you made them, and why Lucifer fell. Anyone would be jealous of the little fuckers.” A small smile crossed his lips. 

“We’re still on our own side,” he said decidedly, dropping his hands into clenched fists. “I may be a demon, but I’m just as necessary as angels are for creating choices for the world. Teach them all a lesson, and let those who  _ deserve _ it be punished.” Crowley looked back up at the ceiling, his slitted yellow eyes softening as he heard Aziraphale stirring in the other room. 

  
  
  


Aziraphale was staring blankly ahead from his seated position on the couch until Crowley came into the room, then the bundled up man perked up and turned his head to catch Crowley’s eyes. 

“How did you sleep?” Crowley asked awkwardly, coming to sit next to Aziraphale, his thigh pressed insistently close to the other man’s. 

“Quietly, at least,” Aziraphale replied. He was awake, attentive and definitely looking at Crowley, but his eyes were noticeably duller, less sparkly than usual. Aziraphale still had Crowley’s shirt across his nude lap, the blanket tucked around him like a cape. Crowley was very relieved to notice that besides the new color of his wings, he didn’t look particularly… Evil. Nor smelled of sulphur. Crowley waved his hand over Aziraphale’s body and he was suddenly clothed in navy blue sweatpants and a comfy white T-shirt. Their mugs, long abandoned of their tea, sat on the floor in front of the loveseat haphazardly. A quick snap, and Crowley held them both up, steaming and refilled. He handed one to his angel, and urged him to take a drink. 

“What are you feeling right now?” Crowley asked carefully. 

“Not sure I can quite put it into words just yet. Cold?” Aziraphale hazarded a guess. The angel shook his head. “No, the.. The way I could feel love,” he paused, gesturing around him vaguely, half-heartedly “love all around me, from people, their homes…  _ You _ feel the same, thank Go-- thank Somebody,” Aziraphale finished on a quiet smile and Crowley’s heart ached.

“I’m empty,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley’s hand shot out to grab the angel’s tightly squeezing as he hissed. 

“You are not,” Crowley insisted. “I won’t lie to you, Angel, the feeling of being lost, being betrayed.. That doesn’t go away easily.” 

“Best not to call me that,” Aziraphale said sadly, taking a long drink from his mug until the tea was gone. Crowley snarled, setting his own mug on the table beside him before framing Aziraphale’s face with his hands. His thumbs insistently rubbed against the arch of Aziraphale’s cheekbones. Crowley waited to see those eyes rise up to meet his own before desperately leaning in, putting all the importance, all 6,000 years of his  _ feelings _ into his words.

“You are MY Angel, and not even She can change that.” He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to the angel’s forehead, anointing him. Promising him. Crowley pulled back from the kiss, touching the tip of his nose to Aziraphale’s, eyes solid yellow as he squeezed his hands on the angel’s face a bit more firmly. Aziraphale, staring back, made a small noise that was undecipherable. “We will figure this out. You will not be dragged to Hell. And frankly, I feel like this gives us a free pass to use as many ‘frivolous’ miracles as we want,” he joked, trying to make the angel smile again. It worked, and Crowley let his hands slide down to Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being Mega Satan,” Crowley began dramatically, making Aziraphale giggle despite himself. “Whereabouts do you feel you lie at the moment?” 

“Well darling, we might have to run a few tests to be sure,” replied Aziraphale. 


	3. A New Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley helps Aziraphale accept his new position in the world, with the promise to stay with him through it all. A test of powers, a torment of retribution, and a new threat from something sinister they didn't expect.. at least not so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so a bit more light-hearted! I struggled with the hierarchies of angels and demons for a while on this one, and fought between Aziraphale truly becoming a capital-D Demon, or something else... 
> 
> A final fight is planned, and Aziraphale knows that the only one he can depend on is Crowley.
> 
> I appreciate all the kind words in the comments. Legitimately happy that this fandom broke me out of a five year fic-writing rut. No matter if I look back at this story and think it's dumb later, I'll be proud to have started again.

One major difference between when Crowley did his little swan dive off of Heaven’s tallest board and now, he believed with equal parts bitterness and relief, is the criteria for being cast out was incredibly harder to meet. Running the major Vices through his head, Crowley could pin a few to the Principality Aziraphale: Gluttony being the most obvious, followed by Pride and more recently, Lust. He didn't think that was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to say. The real problem was, Crowley knew where he stood in the rankings of Hell; he was no Duke or Lord, he was on pure technicality alone, a Demon of Oppression, meant to tempt and torment people in their everyday lives. Officially, Aziraphale outranked him by a few steps, with Human being the middle point. 

The issue now, Crowley thought, was where did Aziraphale stand? It had been a long time since Crowley was in Heaven, and he’d quite gotten the hierarchy confused a bit (in some cases before the Apocadidn’t, on purpose, just to make Aziraphale mad). This was going to be one of their more difficult conversations, and while it may be too early to even rip off this bandage, Crowley figured he’d better get Aziraphale sloshed and ask before the angel shut up about it for centuries.

“So,” he began casually, pouring them each a hefty glass of red wine as they sat next to each other on the loveseat. Aziraphale nodded his thanks and immediately started drinking, the liquid disappearing at a fantastic rate. He took the bottle from Crowley and refilled his own glass before Crowley finished his question. 

“I think we oughta break down the pros and cons of this particular malady, my love.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, tucking his chin into his chest and looking very much like a petulant child, despite his corporation looking like an icy blonde, pudgy, middle-aged man in sweats. He took a very pointed swig of his wine, killing the second glass in record time. Aziraphale held the empty wine glass out to Crowley by the stem, staring until Crowley obliged and tipped in another serving of cabernet sauvignon. This bottle was one of Crowley’s favorites, despite not being a collector like Aziraphale-- a 1951 Australian blend that only boasted twenty bottles in existence. It pleased him to think he’d already bought and drank half of them.

“Whatever do you mean, ‘pros and cons’? As if there were any reasons to be positive about this,” Aziraphale said sullenly, not quite tipsy yet, but willing himself there with every refill. “I am disgusted by myself. I could not imagine anything worse than being this.. This THING,” he spat out, mouth twisting into a grimace. He realized what he’d just said, blushed furiously, and had the good grace to look ashamed as he looked up at Crowley. “I am sorry, my dear. I mean nothing against  _ you,  _ I hope you understand.” Crowley shrugged, a small smile on his face and all was forgiven.

“I’m just saying,” Crowley tried to reassure, “things could be much worse. When I came to, I was in the form of a serpent, forced to slither across the ground, senses either dulled or painfully sharp, no in-between. Even in this form,” he gestured to himself, lanky and still in only a black undershirt and skinny jeans, “_my_ eyes were gone, my tongue ripped out, replaced by this reptile one, and I still get scaly.” At this, he pulled a face, scrunching his brows and nose and flicking his tongue out in an exaggerated hiss. 

“I… I must admit, I am afraid to investigate thoroughly,” Aziraphale admitted. Crowley had polished off the rest of the wine after his reminiscing, and was watching the bottle refill itself with some intensity. 

“Let’s start off easy then,” Crowley said, “do you have enough energy to try a small miracle?” He waved his empty wine glass. “Step one, fill the glass, potential step two, change it to something else.”

Aziraphale scooted forward, sitting up properly on the couch, a look of fierce concentration on his face. He took a breath, snapping his fingers in a tight downward motion, like he was pulling power down from Above. 

Nothing happened. They both waited in silence, Crowley holding the wine bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, facing Aziraphale. 

A second later, Aziraphale grunted angrily, snapping with his hand held in midair. The glass did fill then, nearly to the top, and Crowley realized his hands were shaking when he avoided spilling wine on himself. Aziraphale was  _ beaming  _ though, and it made everything a little bit better. Crowley whooped, setting the bottle down by his feet. He centered his hands, carefully displaying the wine glass in his grasp as if it were the Holy Grail. Aziraphale rocked back a little, shaking his hand like something had stung him. He whooshed out another breath, looking more confident as he leaned forward to snap his fingers again, holding them in the same position as before. 

The wine bubbled in the glass, becoming paler and paler, until it was perfectly clear with bubbles fizzing at the top. Crowley leaned forward and smelled the liquid. “What is that, Lilt?” Crowley asked, tasting a bit. 

“Sprite,” Aziraphale replied with a small victorious look. He wiggled a bit in his seat and slapped his hands down onto the tops of his thighs, sighing. 

“I suppose it should be said that performing that miracle did not feel particularly demonic,” Aziraphale announced. He looked much more energetic than a few hours ago, at the beginning of all this. 

Crowley snapped, and his soda-filled glass disappeared. He clapped his hands together and smiled. “That’s because miracles aren’t necessarily Good or Bad,” Crowley explained, “makes it possible for demons to do Angelic work and vice-versa.” Aziraphale hummed at this, considering. 

“The INTENT is what makes the difference,” Crowley continued. “So we’ll have to see just how Bad you can be, Angel. Get changed, we’re going out.” 

  
  


They were speeding along the highways towards Soho in the Bentley, CD player silent for once, letting the sound of the wind come through the half-rolled down windows. As they entered the main street which led to one of their favorite pastry shops, Aziraphale was starting to worry and make terribly pathetic fretting noises. 

“But do I have to tempt anyone to do Evil?” Aziraphale asked, a hint of a whine creeping into his voice. Crowley screeched to a halt, creating a parking spot for himself along the curb of a one-way street, parked in the wrong direction. He got out of the car to a flurry of honking, giving the cars a cheery wave before going around to open Aziraphale’s door. If he could, Crowley was going to try to make this  _ fun  _ for the angel. “Fancy a scone?” Crowley asked, ignoring Aziraphale’s question. Plying him with food was always a good first tactic. They walked down to the bakery, familiar and delicious smells wafting out the door as they entered. Aziraphale found a booth while Crowley ordered at the counter for him. When he’d returned, a plate of two almond scones with clotted cream in hand, Crowley pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and sat across from Aziraphale. He leaned in conspiratorially as the other man took a careful bite and finding it to his taste, smiled and tucked in like normal. 

“I must admit, I was concerned that I would not be able to enjoy eating as I usually do,” Aziraphale said after patting his mouth with a napkin. He squeaked a little when Crowley took his fork, using it to gesture across the room at a young couple having lunch together. 

“There’s your target,” he pointed, a grin on his face. “Temptation, torment, minor grievance, it’s your pick Angel, but it has come time to sow discontent.” The couple were in their early twenties, dressed in the comfortable hipster fashion that was popular in London, and had their cellphones on the table as they ate-- each occasionally typing on their screen or turning the phone to show something funny to the other. 

Aziraphale looked patently uncomfortable. He reached up and tugged his fork back from the demon, resting the tines on his now empty plate. “Crowley dear,” he began, “is it necessary for this performance? I mean, what if I were to just… stick to our plan? Just live as we have been. Our side.” 

Crowley smiled, reaching over the table to rest one slender hand over his Angel’s. “Two reasons,” he began, “one: to figure out what  _ kind  _ of demonic presence you are, as you may have guessed, there are some distinctions,” at that Aziraphale frowned a little, Crowley squeezing his hand in assurance. He'd have to go over the rankings and titles later. Demons were almost as insufferable about their hierarchy as angels were, but they tended to have more interesting names. “Two: because it would be really funny, honestly.”

Aziraphale shook his head in mock disappointment, trying to think. He didn’t have any particular  _ urge  _ to do evil, especially in such a nice establishment. However, he did have quite a lot of dormant energy from the transformation- mostly a dull sadness at what he’d lost, but also petty anger, simmering and tightening his joints. Aziraphale reasoned that there was little else that could be done to him for any transgressions, short of permanent discorporation, and at the very least, it might  _ feel  _ good. 

“Fine,” Aziraphale agreed, “but let me choose someone who might deserve it more.” Crowley raised both hands in a ‘take it away’ kind of motion, a smirk playing on his face before sitting back and crossing his arms to watch. Aziraphale studied the other patrons before narrowing his eyes, having just seen a man grope a waitress as she walked past his table to deliver coffee to another person. As the waitress hurriedly walked back to the counter, a resigned look of disgust on her face, Aziraphale at that moment, decided to make the groper trip over a chair leg as he stood to leave, his gut falling directly onto his neighbor’s table, splashing hot cappucino all over him. He screamed, a shrill sound, and then rolled off the table onto the floor hitting his hip hard on the ground. There was a metal-and-glass crunch sound. “My phone!” the man exclaimed, groaning from the pain. The man stood and shuffled out, ego and body bruised. The waitress looked extremely amused as she watched him leave, then went to clear his messy table, finding that he’d also left a money-clip of cash behind. This she tucked into her apron, appropriating it for her tip. 

Crowley was snorting into his elbow, trying not to laugh. “Bravo, Angel, bravo,” he clapped. “What’d you do, curse the man? Bad luck for the rest of his life?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Aziraphale waved one hand flippantly. “Just moved the table closer, made the coffee hotter, and ripped a hole in his pocket,” he explained, looking self-satisfied. It  _ had _ felt good, he admitted to himself. It was a form of justice, in a way. 

They cleared up their table and left for a walk around their old neighborhood, chatting about nothing in particular. Aziraphale was wearing his second favorite suit, and at Crowley’s urging had forgone a bowtie, opting to leave his collar slightly open at the top. Crowley couldn’t help but drape an arm around his shoulders as they walked together, letting the tips of his long fingers scratch through Aziraphale’s hair and down the line of his neck. Aziraphale leaned into the touch, closing his eyes briefly, his heart feeling fuller than ever. His steps faltered and he tugged at Crowley’s blazer, pulling him out of the flow of foot traffic and against a nearby brick wall. 

They had paused next to a pawn shop and a window display of televisions all played various stations. There was a bit of static and suddenly they all changed to one channel: a news station, but instead of a regular newscaster, there was a grotesque looking being: man-shaped, but too big, too jagged looking. Looking at him directly made his edges fuzz, like something stalking you from the periphery. His eyes were a dull red and his teeth were like those of a feral wolf when he opened his mouth to speak. 

“Serpent Crowley, former Principality Aziraphale,” the being’s voice rumbled through their chests. Humans walking past couldn’t see what they saw, obviously, but they felt uneasy just passing by the shop, and all walked a little quicker to get away. Neither demon made the move to reply, just stood, assessing, waiting. 

“You are ordered to appear for reassignment before our Dark Prince. Don’t make us come get you,” he threatened, pointing one clawed finger at them both. “You won’t like it if you disobey.” The televisions buzzed with static again and the multiple channels were back, like no time had passed. 

“Who is that?” Aziraphale finally asked, turning to look into Crowley’s eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, but still noticeably wider in concern.

“That would be Abbadon,” Crowley replied.


	4. Psalm 88:11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shall thy loving kindness be declared in the grave (Sheol) or thy faithfulness in destruction (Abaddon)?
> 
> a look at how Hell reacted (or didn't) after the Apocadidn't. From Beelzebub's point of view, this begins the day of the end of the world and meets back up at present day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do really apologize for the larger gap between chapters here, so this is more of a behind-the-scenes look before we get back on the main timeline. 
> 
> thanks so much to prepare4trouble and knobunny for just being super kind with the comments and encouragement. 
> 
> I hope you like it.

Beelzebub sat on their throne, listening to the sounds of their multitude of flies buzzing lazily around their head. It was almost musical to them, and the Demon Lord attempted to relax to the familiar patterns of the swarm. Outside the throne room, Dagon directed a team of lesser demons to begin work on construction of a device of Beelzebub’s own design. It would be a large, medieval-looking contraption, meant to harness and immobilize beings, and with the sigils and runes carved into the arms and legs of the machine, be able to diminish or transfer power as needed. It would be a machine to trap and torture angels. 

Dagon yelled orders to the demons outside, and Beelzebub looked irritated.  _ How long were they going to take? _ To be fair, time did not work the same way in Hell as on Earth, depending on just  _ where  _ in Hell you were. There was the business sector; full of cramped, dripping, miserable offices where demons received their specific instructions. There was of course, the Torments and Lamentations division, of which Dagon was supervisor. Time dragged quite slowly there, for both the human souls being tortured, and the demons doing the deeds. Made it ever so much worse for the victims, and more satisfying for the demons. Beelzebub sighed. They would just have to go over their speech to Abaddon without their Exhibit A. 

If Beelzebub was a Lord of Hell, then Abaddon is one as well, but with much more seniority. Abaddon was Lord of the Abyss, Sheol-- a place of destruction and chaos. He moved from place to place as a swarm of locusts, bringing with him a feeling of dread and terror. He  _ was _ terrifying to look at, thought Beelzebub with a sneer. They hopped down from the throne, flies around Beelzebub’s head buzzing in protest at the sudden movement. They ignored the whining and walked with a quick, intense pace, leaving their throne room for the massive cavern downstairs that Abaddon called home. 

After trying and failing to get young Adam to restart the Apocalypse, Beelzebub in a fit of rage, went to give Satan the message that his half-human son wasn’t cooperating and to please talk some sense into him. Satan  _ had  _ left his throne to break through the ground at Tadfield Airbase, and Beelzebub thought that was that. Sound the alarm, rally the troops. It wasn’t until Beelzebub had walked past Satan’s office and saw the Dark Lord behaving as if nothing had happened, that they figured something was wrong.

The demons who had just been piled together, crammed into the space that would open and allow them to rise up against the angel forces, were all gone. Those that were still in the area were all working, because nothing HAD happened, and Beelzebub was the only one who remembered they were supposed to be in the Final Battle at the moment. 

Beelzebub had immediately gone to Dagon and Hastur, newly re-corporated, and held a staff meeting.

“What are we doing, Your Grace?” Hastur asked the diminutive demon.

“Our Dark Lord doezzzz not know what happened above,” replied Beelzebub, brows knitted together in confusion. They picked at one of the boils on their face, absentmindedly. Dagon and Hastur shot quick looks at each other and then back to their boss. 

Hastur cleared his goopy throat and spoke, trying not to sound as though it were a question, “Above, yes quite. The events that were to take place on Earth.. Above?” Dagon nodded, also wanting Beelzebub to explain without showing their extraordinary lack of knowledge at the moment. Beelzebub caught the stupefied looks on the other demons’ faces and spit out angrily.

“The Great War! It wazzz written! The Anti-Christ was to open the gatezzz and we were all ready to teach those angel bazzztards a lesson!” They were almost frantic, beginning to pace in small steps in front of the demons. 

“It still  _ is  _ written, my Lord,” Hastur offered helpfully. “The son of Satan will be delivered to the Earth, be raised eleven years and then come into his power,” he recited proudly. Dagon nodded again, reaching out to put a hand on Beelzebub’s shoulder, stilling the demon. 

“It hasn’t happened yet, m’Lord, we still have plenty of time,” Dagon consoled. “I’ve almost finished with the project you ordered. I never did ask who’s it for?”

Beelzebub froze, running this new information through their head. The Anti-Christ hadn’t just refused the Apocalypse, he’d somehow undone the past eleven years of work and remade himself into…  _ not  _ the Anti-Christ? 

Beelzebub felt a fresh rush of anger, realizing that the demons (and angels, they were willing to bet) who had met with Adam on the airbase might be the only ones who remembered what happened. They had to fill in their right and left hand men.

Then the Trial had happened, and once Beelzebub figured out about Crowley and Aziraphale’s body swap trick, they were even MORE insulted and upset. No sooner than Crowley had taken the lift out of Hell back to Earth, and Michael had been summarily dismissed, did Beelzebub head directly for Abaddon’s office to explain, needing a favor. 

It was a few days later, that Beelzebub felt it-- a blast of celestial power on Earth, draining away and changing into something demonic. Other demons could feel it or smell it too, to varying degrees. The newest ones in Hell remembered how Her Grace felt surrounding them, and how it felt being torn out of them. These demons were rabid for it, clambering on top of each other, in anticipation of their new coworker. Beelzebub was beyond nostalgia. They could almost taste it, the stench of a new Fallen, and it only strengthened their resolve. A new recruit, thought the Lord of Flies with a smile. The Fallen angel did not, however, make its way down to Hell, and Beelzebub became suspicious. Stretching their consciousness through the tinny, dilapidated PA system, Beelzebub spoke directly into Abaddon’s room. 

“It’s time,” they said, eagerly anticipating the capture and return of Crowley the traitorous snake and Aziraphale, no longer a Principality of Heaven. 


	5. the River Styx, the Gates of Dis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I truly apologize for the wait, if anyone is still waiting. I hit a weird bump in the motivation road, and I hope this coasts me back into some good graces. Very heavily taken from bits of Dante's Inferno, obvs. 
> 
> Next chapter will probably be the most gruesome, but I'll be sure to warn and tag appropriately. This time, The Boys roll into Hell on their own terms.

Crowley and Aziraphale stood shocked, mouths slightly agape at the display of television sets in the shop window. Crowley’s mind was racing, frantically putting the pieces together. Reassignment? And why Abaddon of all beings? He began muttering to himself, trying to formulate a plan. Aziraphale, silently, reached one hand up to firmly grasp the crook of Crowley’s elbow. 

“I know very little of Abaddon,” Aziraphale admitted, “besides the name and...general reputation.” Crowley sputtered at this humorlessly, 

“I’d be willing to bet this is Beelzebub’s doing,” Crowley sneered. “Only prick I can think of that’d call themself a Dark Prince, like some goth dandy.” He turned to look at Aziraphale, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “They want  _ you _ down there, not me-- not really.” 

“How long do you think we have?” asked Aziraphale, not sounding very hopeful at all. 

“Probably only a few hours,” Crowley admitted, “when someone like Abaddon says ‘you’re needed in Hell’, the unsaid word behind that is usually ‘IMMEDIATELY’.” Crowley started to walk down the sidewalk determinedly, slightly dragging Aziraphale by his elbow. 

They walked towards a coffee shop that Crowley was particular to, for it being open 24 hours as well as having the perfect level of gloomy dim lighting that made it easier for him to appear more normal. They entered and Aziraphale was overcome by the sudden sense of  _ sin _ all around the lounge. Old, ratty couches in front of low, stained wooden tables were covered with all sorts of people with their laptops, drinking steaming mugs of coffee. Even without seeing their screens, Aziraphale got the sense that what most of them doing was at best distasteful, and at worst, illegal. He frowned as he was led to the back of the room, into a small room behind the bar where the drinks were made. Crowley nodded to the barista who simply continued frothing the milk in the order before him. 

This room was empty, save for Crowley and Aziraphale. The walls were painted with that special chalkboard paint, and faded chalk graffiti encircled the room. There was a low table with chalk on it, and two overstuffed bean bag chairs from the early 90’s. Crowley tugged his arm free from Aziraphale’s grasp and snatched up a piece of reddish chalk, drawing some complicated sigils on the walls around the doorframe to the room. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, sinking into one of the bean bag chairs, looking incredibly unbalanced. He recognized a few of the sigils as warding symbols, to protect from eavesdroppers or scrying eyes. Crowley hummed a reply, and Aziraphale took it as a ‘give me a moment and I’ll explain’ sort of sound. As Aziraphale watched, Crowley’s writing began to make more and more sense. He recognized Ehwaz, the rune for passage, and Raido for safe journey. Crowley moved to the right wall continuing his drawings with a large, slightly lopsided circle, and embellished the outer ring with a different set of symbols, not quite Enochian, but similar enough that Aziraphale caught the drift. For several long minutes, Crowley’s face was a mask of pure concentration, the chalk shortening to a nub between his fingers as he drew frantically. 

“Making… us.. A gateway, Angel,” Crowley finally replied, finishing his giant sigil with a flourish. He turned, a slightly manic smile on his face, his yellow eyes burning brightly behind his glasses. He tossed the bit of chalk away and magicked up a knife into his hand, a thin silver blade. He helped Aziraphale to stand up with his other hand. While still holding the other man’s hand, he quickly turned his palm over and made a quick slice, drawing a line of blood.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished. “Was that entirely necessary?” Before he could heal himself, Crowley had done the same to his own hand, and was pressing a smudged line of blood into the center of the circle he’d drawn on the wall. He beckoned Aziraphale over. 

“Sorry Angel, but a second of pain for a few precious moments to get the drop on the bad guys,” he replied. “Put your hand here, next to mine and hold on,” he advised. 

Aziraphale came forward, nervously dusting off the front of his jacket and slacks with the non-bloody hand, and stood close to Crowley, raising his hand to hover in front of the wall. 

“Where are we going then?” he asked, carefully pressing his blood into the chalk-dusted circle and feeling the beginnings of a strange tugging sensation. It felt like his navel was being drawn forward like a magnet, and the wall began to shimmer and disappear under his palm. Crowley flashed him a smile, his features distorting as he too was pulled into the gateway. 

“A back door.”

  
  


They landed on their feet in what looked like a dingy underground parking garage-- flickering fluorescent lights lit the damp, oil-stained concrete below their feet. It was surprisingly cold, and Aziraphale drew subconsciously closer to Crowley. The demon beside him stood tall, nose raised as if smelling for danger. In front of them some paces ahead was the entrance to a stairwell, a set of elevator doors next to these with a crude handwritten sign denoting the broken status of the machinery. Aziraphale took a step forward, as if to make for the stairwell, but Crowley held him back, one arm outstretched in front of the angel’s chest. 

“Not that way,” he warned softly. “We’re going to take an old way, one that’s been pretty much abandoned.” He led Aziraphale to turn around, looking into the darkness of the garage beyond. The flickering lights went out further ahead, and for all they strained, they could not see much more than the ground beneath their feet as the darkness grew. Aziraphale could feel it in the air-- how incredibly ancient this place was, how desolate. He had seen how uncomfortable and crowded Hell’s upper levels were; seeing this empty cavern of a garage was almost more unsettling. Their footsteps echoed as they walked, clicking off the stone floor. The line of darkness approached at a steady pace. Crowley, face completely blank, staring straight ahead reached out his hand to take Aziraphale’s in a warm, comforting grasp. 

The darkness began to swallow them then, toes first, creeping up their legs and torso until they were completely surrounded. They kept their pace up, walking in what Aziraphale could only assume was a straight line. He had looked back for a moment, surprised when he could no longer see the garage they had come from, as if it had never been there. Aziraphale walked, fingers interlaced with Crowley’s, and was grateful for this grounding touch. It was total cave darkness, not a bit of light around them, and even the concrete underneath them felt different. What was once a smooth path became uneven, making all sorts of quiet noises that Aziraphale’s ears strained to hear: bits of glass tinkling off of wooden floors, the scuff of rocks bunching up under his shoes, the groans and squeaks of metal sheets bending under their steps. 

“Nearly there,” Crowley said, his raspy voice breaking through the litany of noises. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, and then there it was, a dot of light ahead of them, sickly green and wavy, but light all the same. With every passing minute the light grew until it was clear that it was the entrance to a cave of sorts, a proper one with boulders, damp limestone walls, and a faint trickle of water echoing around them. Crowley let his eyes adjust again, finally letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. 

They were on a little shoreline of sand and rocks, in front of them a wide stream of dark green water, too dark to see how deeply it ran. Aziraphale took a deep breath, feeling extremely relieved that he could feel something that wasn’t the swirling darkness they’d gone through, but also deeply unnerved at the sight of the water lapping up on the sloped gravel bank. There were definitely  _ things  _ in that water, deep and dark as it was; hateful things that nobody but truly desolate souls were meant to recognize. Aziraphale took the short careful steps to the edge of the water, and looked down into the ripples, searching for his reflection in the sickly green light. There was none. Crowley made a throat-clearing sound, and Aziraphale looked up, suddenly startled to see a dark cloaked figure standing in a boat before him. 

“Lord  Phlegyas ? Charon?” Crowley asked, bowing in a way that Aziraphale had never seen him do genuinely. As it was, Aziraphale was already bent at the waist from looking into the river, so he only ducked his head again before standing back up fully. “How long’s it been?” Crowley asked, his winning smile and charming personality kicking in as he greeted the boatman like an old friend. The boatman was silent for a long beat, then threw his shrouded head back and laughed, the hood falling to reveal a skeleton grin with two golden orbs barely glowing in the eye sockets. 

“Crawly?” the wizened boatman asked, incredulously. His voice had a perceptible echo to it, like layers and layers of different accents, both male and female, of various ages. “Well, now I’d bet my last two Obols that I’d never get to see your ugly face again,” he chuckled good-naturedly. “Still sneaking around, I see,” he shook his head at this in mock disappointment. 

“ _ Crowl _ ey,” Crowley corrected, “I know you got my message after I’d reached Mesopotamia, so don’t even start that with me again.” Crowley stepped past a gobsmacked Aziraphale to firmly shake hands with the boatman, turning back to urge the other man forward. “Aziraphale here,” he motioned, “is in a bit of a pickle, you might say. Need a way to Head Office for a surprise meeting.”

“I’ve not seen business in many an age,” Charon replied. “To be frank, I’m not entirely sure this river wasn’t completely cut off after the Great War. Air’s a bit stale, can’t you tell?” Nevertheless, he waved his arm towards his boat, and it held perfectly still in the water, right at the edge of the river. Crowley stepped in first, offering his hand to Aziraphale so he could step in after. They sat on the ancient boards creating the center seatwell, thighs pressing tightly together and felt more than saw Charon resume his place at the back of the boat, raising from the air a swirl of shadows and dust that became his long ferryman’s pole which he dipped silently into the water below. He pushed, and the long boat was moving away from the shore, smoothly down the river through the massive underground cave. 

Aziraphale kept silent, trying to recognize new, bitter emotions that flowed through him as the boat cut through the waters. Anxious, certainly, that one was easy. He’d felt that one before, but this time without the undercurrent of Faith that told him everything would ineffably be okay in the end. Anger that ran under his skin like a hot current of electricity, that was… not  _ good _ but satisfying in a way he was afraid to voice aloud. It fueled him. He knew it was what was fueling Crowley, taking him down here. Disgust, but not in the way he’d felt it before: not horror at the misdeeds humans could do to each other, or the unfair, despicable behavior of the angels he’d been indoctrinated to follow blindly. This was disgust for  _ everything _ ; the lost souls in the river beneath them, the demons that fought and scrabbled through Hell like cockroaches, too stupid to realize they were all disposable. 

He felt a snarl beginning to curl his lip and visibly flinched when Crowley turned, giving Aziraphale the most disappointed, aghast expression. Aziraphale quickly schooled his features into the calm, beatific smile he normally wore. The effect on Crowley was like whiplash.

“Alright, Angel?” Crowley whispered to him, not sounding entirely sure what he was asking. Crowley could feel certain emotions like angels could, and after 6,000 years on Earth, he’d even tuned into the more angelic emotions better than most demons. He was only sensing hot flashes of Wrath, rolling off of Aziraphale like heat waves. It worried him, but he didn’t want to intrude by skimming his angel’s thoughts to find the source of these feelings. 

Water lapped at the edge of the boat as they subtly began to change direction, moving diagonally toward a large cutout in the sheer cave wall. Aziraphale smiled, nodding his reply before leaning in to press a chaste, dry kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “Of course, dear boy.”

They entered the smaller cavern, the greenish light growing dimmer until near total darkness again, then there was a click sound-- dry bones snapping fingers together-- and Charon held a light aloft for their path one-handed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canto VIII is one of my favorites, because it talks about the different standards of fame in the afterlife. I felt it fitting they entered through the fabled Fifth Circle, for those drowned in sorrows and anger.
> 
> Thanks again for taking the time to read.


	6. The Lesser Key of Solomon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey wow, I'd like to formally apologize and say that while I did not forget about this story, I did lose my mojo for a while, but I got my meds refilled and my schedule has balanced out a bit, so Please Enjoy! As always, I appreciate and treasure any and all feedback I get. You're all beautiful. 
> 
> *the asterisk near the Hebrew letters and rune names was supposed to be a footnote, but I could not get them to work on this laptop  
hagalaz- destroy  
perthro- transform  
לִוְיָתָן- Leviathan, the great serpent beast at the end of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for blood, character death, choking, descriptions of torture devices?
> 
> I hope you all can picture what I imagined with Aziraphale's final scene, if you will. Thank you again for taking the time to read. I'll be much more punctual on the final chapters.

Crowley and Aziraphale left the boatman at the end of the tunnel they passed through, and the walls of the cave had begun to turn back into the hard, bunker-like concrete walls of the rest of Hell. They crept down the long hallways, the gross fluorescent lights making spotlights for them every couple of meters. There were no demons, no creatures, on this floor and Crowley motioned towards a door leading to a stairwell. He ducked in, careful not to let the door slam itself shut, and took the flights of stairs upwards, two or three steps at a time, Aziraphale following not far behind. 

The floor they entered was full of demons, shuffling and lurching towards their next job, or just leaning against the grimy walls, looking miserable. Crowley quickly extended some of his power to encourage the demons they passed to forget they were ever there, as even Aziraphale’s second best suit stood out like a sore thumb. Crowley’s eyes narrowed as he searched down the hallway for signs of Beelzebub and their crew. At the end of the hall was Abaddon’s quarters, for lack of a better term-- a heavy stone door set deep into the stone walls, stained with blood and surrounded by crumbling debris.. Demons did not typically need a place to store things, being able to push and pull things through different planes as they wished, but higher-ups in Hell tended to not want to mingle with the lower classes, and therefore had offices, studies, dungeons, or war rooms. Nobody important was in their way, so Crowley tugged Aziraphale forward and they slinked into the large room unnoticed. 

Inside the walls were grimy, pitch dark, and moved nearly imperceptibly, like oily water. Crowley grimaced as he realized the walls were  _ covered _ in a multitude of insects, and these shivered in a simultaneous, pulsing wave to a rhythm he could not understand. In the center of the room was a stone dais, upon it a throne under a greenish fluorescent spotlight and behind that, rows and rows of … something.

Aziraphale moved closer first, stepping up to the throne and looking beyond the stage, past the light and reeling back in disgust.

There were what looked like hand carved human operating tables, though these had a much wider breadth and a collection of malicious tools attached to them. There was a vague humanlike corporeal shape with a place for the victim’s arms and legs to be secured down with bonds as well as two large straps hanging across the chest, nasty looking spikes embedded in the leather. As they both moved closer, Crowley’s eyes widening in horror, they recognized sigils and other markings on all of the machines- * _ HAGALAZ, PERTHRO,  _ pentacles from what humanity called the Lesser Key of Soloman- pentacles from specific demonic entities, claiming their space- as well as  לִוְיָתָן and a few alchemical symbols that human theologists made up that Crowley figured the demons who created the devices had thrown in for fun. These weren’t necessarily the problem. The real problem, as they both could easily tell, were the designations for specific angels- marked in summoning and  _ binding _ circles in the center of the torture machines. Aziraphale recognized Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon, and others, and turned to meet Crowley’s eyes in shock. 

“So this… looks bad,” he began awkwardly. Crowley let out a derisive sound like a horse’s whinny and ran one hand through his hair. “It seems their confidence about winning the Great War was not entirely unfounded,” Aziraphale continued, “as it looks like quite the party was planned for those they intended to take hostage.” 

“No shit,” Crowley muttered. He turned his back on the collection and focused once more on Abaddon’s throne. “Stand back Angel,” Crowley advised, snapping his fingers, a thin blade appearing in one palm and a small black bowl in the other hand. Ensuring Aziraphale was off of the top step of the dais, Crowley began to chant in an Abyssal language, circling the throne as he moved to cut his palm open, letting the thick, dark blood drip into the bowl. He barely flinched, and Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s essence extending itself, curling around them both in a burning wave. The insects on the walls, far away as they were, still shivered at the change in forces. Crowley felt different, Aziraphale thought to himself; he’d seen the demon use his powers before but never in this fashion- truly tempestuous violence was pouring out of him, and he felt  _ dangerous _ . Aziraphale looked around, feeling another movement enter the room and it took him a split second to recognize it. 

A locust buzzed, flying about a foot away from his head, landing on the torture device nearest the angel. He looked at the creature curiously and felt that it was looking back in a more intelligent way. More buzzing, distant and first that grew into such cacophony that Aziraphale felt it might drive him to tear off the skin of his corporation. A swarm of locusts poured into the room from an unknown place, seeming to peel themselves away from the walls, the floor, manifesting out of the air itself, and created a dense whirlwind around the two beings on the stage.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started, but was drowned out by a disturbing noise he couldn’t describe. Crowley had interrupted his cantations and was looking terrified, Aziraphale knew just from how he was holding his body, but his slitted yellow eyes were focused in a defiant sort of determination. Blood stained his now clenched fist and he bellowed up at the mass of locusts, “ABADDON! We have done as you requested!” The locusts broke their cyclone around the two and reformed, solidifying into a horrifying demon, easily one and a half times larger than Crowley. 

He was beastly, with solid red eyes and a muzzle that was like if a Clydesdale horse had wolves’ teeth. He wore no clothes, and while his torso was like a man’s, from his hips down, he was covered in thick, greasy looking fur. Scars lined his face and were scattered across his chest. The first step he took made all the insects on the walls flinch in unison, the clicking of their wings and feet audible. A horde of flies entered then, quickly swarming the dais and reforming into Beelzebub, who looked extraordinarily smug. 

C̸̢̬̣͎̥̲̲̹̙̮̥͕͆̿̽̃̕͘͜ṟ̷̨̻̥̤͖̦̟̣̄̔̽̏̃̚̚o̶̼̥̤̪̯̜̟̩̭̝̺̿͊̓̊̎͊͋͝͝w̷̰͔̝͙͒̔̒͛l̴̛̝̬̘͑̉̃̃͐̊̅̉͝e̷̖̼̳͙̹͂͜ỷ̵͉͓̝̮̾̎͋͂́̃͌̒͐͒͋͘͜͝͠ͅ  came the voice they’d heard from the television earlier, only this time the demon could barely keep back the disgust, taking a step back protectively towards Aziraphale and looking up at Abaddon. 

“Yes, welcome back, traitor,” Beelzebub sneered at Crowley, then looked fondly over towards Aziraphale. “Although you do get some points for the new recruit. Looks like something did come out in Hell’s favor after that bloody reset.”

S̷̰̖̦̑̎͝ͅę̸̟̹̝͆̎̎͝ṟ̵̺̙̄̎͐̀̄͛̓̑͛p̵̬͂̈́̏̌e̸̢̧̨̛͙̹̥̖̼̦̰̪͙͗̊̿n̴̢͈̤̳̰̟̦̫̙͍̦͗͒̿͑̾̀̈́̽̐̒̊̅̔͝t̵̙͍͇̰͇̖̐̏͂̎̀͜͝͝,̸͓̞̱̮̰͚͉̠̌͒̒̊͘͝ ̷̲̮̬̟̼̹̹͓̳͓̫̫͂̾͒̆͛̎̎̃͌͆̽ͅy̴̞̥͈̲̪̰̩͈͂̃͝o̷̱̠͓̻̜͗͑͌́̅̕͠u̴̩̠̝̼͂́̈͂͘ ̸̣̻̱̬̹͚̰́̊̃̒̓ͅd̴̹͆̐̑͂͋͌͜ō̷͚̱̟̝̏̓͛͑̓ ̶̧͕̖̜̮͚̩͖̗̹̑͑͑͋͝w̵̳͑̈̈̋͌͐̑͝ḛ̶̦̂̃͊͒͊̃l̴̘͚̪͛͊̿͂̂́̾̀l̸̡̡͈͈̜̝̹̠̯̘̭̲̲̘̬̄̈́̑̆̅̅̂̊̊̽̄̈͋̕ ̶̛̪͉̦̑̽̍̈́͐̔̎̍̀́͠͠ţ̶̡̞͎̬̺̦̣̯͉̘̏̽̂̇͊̈́̐̕͝͝ớ̸̢̧̧̝̤͇̣̲͖͖̞̪̍̎̿͑̂̎̇̿͆̈́͝͝ ̸̧̲͎̝͔̓̊̑̈́̿̔̔͌͂͂̕̚ͅb̴̢̪̙̬͔̘͎͈̝̞͖̼̳̽͜r̶͔̬͇̪̼̺̘͗͛̒̿̋̏̄͐̀̎̚̚i̸̝͕͚͝͠ņ̸͚̱̼̞͉̪̳̯͕͋̂̊̓̉̉͒͘ğ̷̗͙̭̓̿̓̿ ̴̨͖̂̽̕m̵̧̢̳̳̠̞̲̜̞͉̦̥͊̆̔̚͝e̷̢͚̓ ̸͎̝͇̞͈̬̱̰̪͙̗͊̽̽͛̏͜ͅt̶̨̛̲̮̯̟̠̼̟̬͆͛̋̈̿̄͛̇̈̅̈́̚͜͜h̵̛͚̞̜͗͊͂̑͗̎͑̑͛͘̕e̷̤̗͖͙͔͗̿͗͝ ̴̗̥̳̈́͐̓̒̑͒̽̆̀́͂F̵̝̭̳̞̻͍̝̃̅̌́͑̇̓͛̄̃͝͝ͅả̷͎̦̹̯̥͔͍̦l̷͇̭̮̥̲͚̇̿͂͑̉͂ļ̶͕̟͌̉̇̽͐̍̈͌̐̈́̇ȇ̵̩͉̬̘͍́̅̈́̉͝ͅͅṅ̷̰̼̮̥͚͇́̐̔̋̍̊͒̑͝͠ͅ.̶̟͚͙͖͖̼̜̜̬̘̐̓̋͂̕̚ͅ 

  
  


“He’s not staying, thanks for the invitation though,” Crowley shot back. His eyes flashed quickly to the throne and back to the demon’s eyes. His hand shook a bit as he held the bowl of his blood. Abaddon chuckled darkly, looking at the throne and sniffing the air. 

  
  


T̸̛̙̝̈́̾̈́̑͂̽̇͝h̷̡̛̤̭͚̝̟̯͕̠̝̪̭̍͊̈́ḁ̸̻͉͎̆t̴̲̅͗ ̶̢̜͔͗͂͆̔̈́͗͌̆̑̊͆͑̓s̸̛̛̭͙̱̱̝̺̰̈̈́̈́̍̂̈͑͠͝p̴̖͓̞̐̆̄̓͜͠ͅë̶̺͉̺̐̅̎͋̅͛̉͘l̷͕̗̠͚̇͆̏̃̐͘͘͜l̸̨̢̫̫̮̗̠͕̫̼̥͓͚͒͂͋̑͂͌͗̚͝͝ͅ ̶̗̘̞̄͗̈́̆͋i̴̲͉̭̩̥̓͊͑̚s̸̖̼̫̘̖̥̳̬̗͖͈͙͈̭͊́͑́̉̋̌̂̒̏̒̅̾n̵̞͚̝̹̓̍̈̇͂̚'̴̲̤̰͙̪͇̝̝̬̳̈́̓̒͗̇̒̆͊͘t̷̡̠͚̰̹͇̘̱̪͖͎̗̺͂͑̿̌̂͑̅́̈́̏̆ ̶̨̨̛̱͓͔̝̹̗̺̲̜̙̥̆͌̅͒̀͜͝n̷͇̫̟͚͗e̶̡̛͎͎̼̙̝̝̲̜̫̞̩̳̜̮̋͒̃̌͆͛̃͐̽̀͒̅̃̑ă̸̧̨̤͉̪̞͓̌̒͊̑̊͝͠r̴̩̮̻̤͍̖͓̦̩̖̅̈́̓͗̅̂͐̅ͅl̶̬̖̩̖̙̅̆̆̐͊̄͘͜y̵̗̠̞̥̺̟̻̲͌̐́ ̶̗̫̼̯̱̃̎̔̊͝e̷̅̓̈́̂̍̚̕͜n̵̡̨̠̟̜̣̮͈̒̇̀̾̏̋̽͆̀̑̎̿͠ͅơ̸͍̎̈́̈̊͊̈́̈́̈́̔̈́͑̌͑̕ų̶̭̤̠̪̰̩̣̝͕̺͖̻̊g̵̛͈̅͋͋̾̕h̶̖͕͔͍͙̖̤͈͉̤̗̜̲͚́͛̍̄̅̍͊̅́͘̕͜͝ ̶̤̙̯̫̦̦̣̺̖͉̱̞̋̓̓̑̀̏͋́̕͘̚͝ţ̷̢̭̣̘͎̯̠̜̻͙͍̼̇̓̔̾̒͛͘ͅo̸̧͙̰̲̲͊̑̊̈́͐̄͘ͅ ̵̧̛͆̍̒͂h̴̡̛͔͙̗̱͉̳̬͗͒͗̍͒̿̅͑͒͜õ̴̯̲͚͓͇̜̹̼͂̅̿̽̇͘l̷̯̼̹̓́̂͆͂͑̅͠d̸̡̧̬̼̠̖̣̤̫̬͍̯͂̈́̉ ̷̢̺̹͙̳̬̬̱̼̰̙͖̞̭̍͐̈̿̒̇͗̊̓ͅm̴͙͔̲̺̄̒̾̐͌̋̋͛͗̏͝͝ȅ̴̢͚͔͈̪͍͉̙̻̖̞̱͔̼͋̈.̵̡̪͆́̎͗̒̅̅̿͑̑͠͝ 

  
  


“It’s not really to capture  _ you _ , that’d be a waste of time. It’s more of an exorcism for your best friend here,” Crowley replied. 

In an instant, three things happened in incredibly quick succession: the demon’s fingers snapped and the previously invisible spell lines he’d imbued with his power began to flicker and combust; he forcefully flung the blood out of the bowl towards Beelzebub, most of it splashing them directly in their pustulant face; Beelzebub uttered the most harpy-like screeching of pain as they sunk to the stone floor, clawing at their face with dirty, ragged fingernails. Crowley was satisfied to see Beelzebub fall quiet suddenly as their corporeal form sunk face-first, into the stone floor. As the stone held them on hands and knees into the ground, the second part of the spell began to take it’s damage. The circle Beelzebub was held in pulsed a bright red and suddenly wings appeared from between the Duke’s shoulders. They were long, narrow, almost translucent insectoid wings, and they began to crackle and peel apart on the demon’s back. The small body convulsed in pain until all that was left were two melted stumps of flesh breaking through a bubbling, flayed back, and the tension in their arms and legs failed, the dying body crumpling into a pile. Crowley swallowed back bile and thanked Someone that the face hadn’t been visible for the last moments.

The immediate next second had Crowley in the air, Abaddon holding him by his throat to dangle meters above the ground. Aziraphale moved forward in a flash, but was slammed backwards by an easy wave of Abaddon’s hand, falling backwards off the dais. 

  
  


**N̷̨͚͉͕͑͂̚o̸̜͓̝̣̺̻͖̦͇̭̦͛̓̀̍͌̓̽̏̄̐̀͝͝ͅt̶̛̛͉͍̗̜̩͉̋̐́̓̄̃̈́̒̕͜͝ ̸̨̣̼̮̲͕̫̣̠̭͖̪̞̍̇͛͒́̔͘y̷̗͇̩̝̱̻͔̅̑͘͝ó̸̳̥̻̰̘̘͕̤̈̒̕ͅu̷̧̳̭̦̹͈̣̐̍͒͝r̵̢̦̞͎̿̉̉̿̊͊̇̂͜͝͝ ̶͚͓̙̘͎̻͉̺̳͓̿͜ͅb̵͉̤͚̭̟̜̪̫̎̏̅͜͜ͅe̷̛͈͎̠̱͖͙̺̎̐̂̓̀̀̌̽͜͝͠͠s̷̫̍͌̌̽̓̆͛͝͠t̸̡͕͚͓̠̿͊̐̂̒́͒͘͠ ̷̨̧͓̠̘̲̲̪̩̋͜ị̵̢̦͎̜̟̫͓͕̦̙͔͎͕͂̄̒͐d̵̫̺̞̜̙̥͖̯̙͖͙̎͆̓̆͘e̴̙̯͋̾̀͂͝͠͠͠͝͝ḁ̵͔̻̲͋,̶̨̝̬̺̓̈́̀̓͐͒̀̍̄͘ ̴̜̣̉͑̏ẫ̵̯̘̩͔̔̆͐̔͌̽͂̈͌͋͘n̸̤͍̳̣̲̙̻̑̀̎̓̾̂̇̄̕͠d̸̠͎̲̙͓̖̿̔͊̊̀͂̄̃̄̚̚͝ ̸̧̛̦̫̣̈̓̈̉̒̀̑̕͝y̷̡̤͍̰̝̻̹͉̫͎̲̬͙̺̌̓͆͑̋͗̓̑̕o̴̟͔̊̿̌̊̐̄̎̎̉̀̃͊û̴̫̚̚ ̴̡̹͕̦͙̜̝̠̪͒͜ͅw̸̬͈͓̥̳̤̣̦͕͐̊̐͜ẽ̵̢͕̲̗͍͙̿͐̈́͑̑̓̓̌͜ŕ̵̢͔̙̟̱̹̺̑́̋͒ͅë̸̞̙̯̞̰͈͍̙̪̹̜́̍̾̅̿͛̽̓̽̇͆͛̅͂͠ ̸̢̛̗̱̙͖̖͉̱̩͖͍̖̣͂̆̄̆̏̄̈́̀̑̚̕͜ş̷̪̝̼̳͉̙͎͙̎̎͑̎̍ȏ̴̡̙̙̝̬̙̪̆̄́̑̕͜ͅ ̶̨͔̠̼̰͚͎̘̠͚̖̲̈́̾̓̅͊͘̕͜͠k̸̻̖͊͌͗̎̔n̷̨̨̡̡̟̦͖̮̮͙̺̹͍̊͊̌͊̚͘ö̴͎͕̪̇̍̅̾̆͠ẅ̴̪̠̜͙̻̼̞̺͕̫̪͎͚́̊̓͐̋̐̀̆̍̈́͑̐̚̕͜͝n̴̨̡̨̛̮̱̩̭͔͔̈́̀̇͝ ̴̢̛͍̣͉̝͚̈͛͂͑̂̒̏̈́͘͘̕̚͝f̴̡͕̲͇͚̗̬̩̮̲̓͜o̸̢̡̝̜̗̳͓̙̲̙̾̉͑̀̈͗̄̅̚ͅr̴̛̟̆̈́̆̈̓͊͛̉͐͒͝͝ ̷̨̡̺̞̩͕̻̩͍̳̘̩̇̀͒͂͐̊̍̉̆̌͒̌̈́͝y̶̞̲̹̿̓͛̆̈́͒͆͛̓̐̎̎̕o̵̧̨̡͖̤͇̗̓̽̊̆̕͘͝ų̵̞̟̤̜̻̗̺̈́͑͂̐͂́̕r̶̙̜͔̪̥̅ ̵̨̦̠̩̳͉͓̭̪̣̖̿̆̂́͌̕͝i̴̢̛̖̩͑̉͝n̸̨̧̢̝̟͖̫̮̥̭̈́͂̾̅̋͛̋̐̒̎͂͋̅̚͝ģ̵̹̌̅̌͂̈́͑́̐̄̉͘͠ͅę̶̣̮͓̰̞̠̱̝̪̬̗̋̎̈̾̔̾ͅñ̵̡̬̯̬̅͌͜ư̴̘̼̹̎i̷̡͙̦̮̹͖̭͚͖̬̙̓̈́͊̓̋͊̃̎̐̇̕͝͝͠t̵̛̫̗̯̮͕̺͎̭̭̺͛̋̆̑̃̒̉̈͘ÿ̵̡̫̩̯̙̲̘͚̬͍́̽͛͛̎̂̚͜.̶̧̼̩̦̖̱̘͇̭͎̫̭̖̆̎͐̀̐̔͌̌̕͝.̷̛̛̳͔̪̠͈̿̐̓͐̋̍̂̉̋̓͘͠ **

  
  


Abaddon shook his head in mock disappointment, his claws beginning to dig into Crowley’s throat. Crowley kicked his legs out as he wiggled, futilely attempting to dislodge the hand that was beginning to hurt, actually. Locusts crawled down Abaddon’s arm towards Crowley’s face, moving quickly towards his gasping mouth. From where he had been thrown, Aziraphale was beginning to look very different. 

Energy crackled and sparked off of his corporation and he began to rise up, hovering to eye level with Abaddon, but when he looked up to face the demon, his features were warped. Hundreds of piercingly blue eyes opened to stare at the two beings in front of him, and Aziraphale outstretched both arms and wings, an unholy light beginning to show around his edges. He looked less and less humanoid, his normally fluffy white wings looking as though a dove got caught in a hurricane-- scraggly and sharp, the feathers curved inwards towards his front, nearly encircling him as the light grew brighter and brighter. Abaddon squinted his eyes, but even though it was painful and nearly blinding, Crowley looked on in awe and genuine terror. 

Aziraphale’s face was a perverse approximation of his Heavenly face, stretching to accommodate the sudden appearance of a partial lion’s face on his left side, and an owl’s on the right. 

“Let him go,” Aziraphale commanded in a distorted, echoing voice, reaching one arm out towards Crowley, his fingers poised to snatch the demon out of the air in an instant. Crowley weakly lifted the hand closest to his angel. Aziraphale was emanating a level of power that Crowley had never felt from him before. It bore no resemblance to the essence the angel normally exuded, it was entirely born of vengeance and hatred. It was Biblical Wrath, incarnate.

Abaddon snarled and took a pivoting step towards Aziraphale and everything changed.

It could have taken a second, it could have taken an hour for the whole thing to be over, but Crowley has watched human media, read comic books and science fiction novels; this was like an atomic blast of occult power possibly only matched by Satan himself. Aziraphale’s light exploded outwards, catching Abaddon in the chest and slamming the beast back against his own wall of insects, which crunched terribly beneath him, their carcasses falling to the ground like pebbles in a rock slide. The great demon was obviously stunned, and Aziraphale held Crowley’s body to his form, cradling the demon like a child. Aziraphale spoke quietly, a word that Crowley felt more than heard,  _ destruction,  _ and a great chasm appeared in the stones beneath their hovering feet, widening to swallow the horrid angelic torture equipment. The tables and weapons were all swallowed up in the pit he’d created and were dashed apart against each other, rendering them unusable and irreparable. 

Crowley felt Aziraphale reach his power out to the doorway Crowley had created in the coffee shop back in London. There was a fierce tugging sensation near his navel, Crowley closed his eyes against the feeling. With a crack of sound that reverberated in his ears, they were both gone, and Crowley finally recognized the shop’s carpeted floor under his head and Aziraphale laid him down gently. He took a grateful peek at Aziraphale’s face which had lost the unnatural light and looked like his usual self, if a bit more worn out and concerned.

Crowley heaved a ragged sigh and passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> My thinking is that the only "Big Sin" Aziraphale could commit that would really make God disappointed in him enough to teach him a lesson would be the beginnings of Doubt, not just in the Plan but in Her existence/involvement.   
Crowley is DEFINITELY gonna want some answers from Upstairs. 
> 
> More to come! Please review if this touched you in any way.


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